


If music be the food of love, play on, give me excess of it; that surfeiting, the appetite may sicken, and so die.

by hauntingthesupermarket (666pm)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, character death that isnt really prevalent, this is sooooooo unfinished
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 22:02:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/666pm/pseuds/hauntingthesupermarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John hoped, rather; that now that Sherlock was so extremely dead, he would be rid of him. But really, how foolish. Sherlock had dug his heart up and bled his own blood into it, Sherlock was inside of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If music be the food of love, play on, give me excess of it; that surfeiting, the appetite may sicken, and so die.

**Author's Note:**

> better this be here than rotting somewhere on google docs.

And sometimes, months later, Sherlock’s ghostly arms could still be felt around his hips, his damp breath still hovering around his pulse.  
John thought, (Only sometimes, because these days thinking made his mind wind up and uncoil, striking him between the eyes.) John hoped, rather; that now that Sherlock was so extremely dead, he would be rid of him. But really, how foolish. Sherlock had dug his heart up and bled his own blood into it, Sherlock was inside of him. A tapeworm, a living, breathing, creature.  
John must’ve been going crazy. Because the dead don’t cling onto your clothes, your sheets, your sofa. The dead don’t climb walls. The dead don’t whisper about your tight little ass at 5am, sweat dripping down your thighs. They aren’t walking down the street or on the telly. The dead are, in all cases, (no exceptions, mind you.) dead.

John had known insanity from the first day they met. Sherlock was an ice prince, John a farm boy-- he fell in love before Sherlock could reduce him to facts and figures on a crime scene report.  
And he thought he had it hidden. Tucked away with his other sinful thoughts in a bleeding box under his left lung. He tried not to stare, tried not to hold touches in his hands like melting ice cubes, but every man has his limits. Sherlock’s eyes, his mouth slightly open in careless concentration, those were two limits. Sherlock’s voice, the humming engine purr of a new car; “I’m going to conduct an experiment, John,” another.

So Sherlock had found him out, and John hadn’t been sure if it was better or worse than letting the bleeding box overflow with bright red blood, and pool under his organs like a running tap. He wasn’t stupid. Love should be beautiful. As a child, his mother had sung to him and Harry in a soft, lilting voice before bed, of the sugary love found in cookie crumbs and dandelion seeds, the kind that left you breathless and pink all over. 

The kind of passion Sherlock gave John, was exactly that, passion. The kind of pure undiluted passion that comes from suppression, need, and boredom. The nights they spent; animals, twisted in soaking sheets, were the release of a pressure building up without their consent. 

And soon, it became clear Sherlock did not love John like John loved Sherlock. Perhaps it was that Sherlock was incapable of experiencing those strong emotions that drove John to insanity and insomnia (the box dripping blood onto the carpet when he was most unstable.) Sherlock was, a sociopath. God damnit, John wasn’t stupid. So it hurt more than it should’ve, when Sherlock’s mouth wrapped around the ugly phrase; “You should stop this pining over me, I will never return your sentiments, you surely know.” 

Maybe John thought he was more than a pastime, a cure for Sherlock’s boredom. Maybe in the nights after the fucking they’d done, John would sit on the tiled bathroom floor, his fingers tracing the small white triangles like the answer to the question that unscrewed his bones and put them back together in all the wrong places. Is it better to love, or be loved? Easier to give than to receive?

Maybe he didn’t want to know the answer.

So he fucked it up, like he did most of the time. He stared at Sherlock, he saw the blue eyes, (surely containing shards of glass), he saw the bow mouth, twisted in a scowl of sorts, and instead of yearning and bowing his head, a farm boy to his ice prince-- he clutched the shoulders of a highly functioning sociopath and sobbed, like a wounded hound, like a human in pain.  
I fucked you like you were the only person I would ever love I loved you I loved you and you told me to go faster and I let you reach inside of me and pull out my bloody heart and you tore it up because you couldn’t let it sit in your hands I hate you Sherlock! I hate every logical piece of you! I hate that you won’t love me back! I hate that you won’t let me love you!


End file.
